Sam Eastland - The Beast in the Red Forest

‘The Germans made the same threats back in 1941,’ remarked Fedorchak. ‘Now they’re gone and we’re still here. Maybe we’ll take our chances.’

‘The Fascists gave you no choice except to fight them or to fight against each other,’ explained Andrich, ‘but what I’m offering you is a way to not only survive but to be remembered as heroes in this wretched war. Victory is almost in sight. Why not share in the return of everything we have been fighting for?’

‘We did not fight so that everything could go back to the way it was before. We are fighting so that things might finally change. No more collective farms. No more forced conscription. No more arrests and executions simply to fill quotas set by Moscow. This whole countryside is one mass grave, and it’s not just our enemies who have done this.’ Now Fedorchak levelled a finger at Kirov. ‘It’s men like him as well.’

What have I walked into? wondered Kirov. The situation with these partisans is even worse than Comrade Stalin described.

‘What you want is what I want as well,’ Andrich pleaded with the men, ‘and I have faith that those things will come in time. But what matters right now is that we stay alive.’

For the first time, his words were not met with angry and sarcastic replies. The partisans seemed to be listening.

Taking advantage of this lull in the negotiations, Kirov removed the envelope, now wet and stained with water from the ditch, containing his letter of introduction from the Kremlin. He held it out towards Andrich, the once crisp rectangle sagging over the tips of his fingers. ‘Comrade Colonel, I have come directly from Moscow with instructions from Comrade Stalin.’

‘Can’t you see,’ Andrich said drily, ‘that I am already in the middle of following Comrade Stalin’s instructions?’

‘These are new instructions,’ answered Kirov.

Slowly Andrich reached out, took hold of the envelope and weighed the soggy paper in his hand. ‘Have you been swimming?’

Kirov opened his mouth to explain, but then thought better of it and said nothing.

Andrich opened the envelope, removed the letter it contained and glanced at it. ‘You’ve come all this way to search for one man, who may or may not be living with the partisans?’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’

‘In which Atrad does he serve?’

‘Atrad?’ asked Kirov.

‘That is the name we give to groups of partisans.’

‘The answer to your question, Colonel, is that I do not know.’

The colonel’s breath trailed out impatiently. ‘Do you know how many bands are out there in the forests and the swamps?’

‘No, Comrade Colonel.’

‘Neither do I.’ Andrich gestured at the partisans. ‘Or they.’ Now the dagger of his finger swung towards the officer in the chair. ‘Not even this man knows and he has just arrived here today as my new intelligence liaison.’

The wounded officer attempted to nod in agreement, but the gesture was halted by the bandage wrapped around his head.

‘But his intelligence is useless to me!’ said Andrich, his voice rising to a shout.

Kirov imagined that the officer must have been grateful, at that moment, for the bandage concealing his expression.

‘It is useless,’ the colonel went on, ‘because, like everyone else, he cannot tell me the number or location of the Atrads. In spite of this, Moscow has given me the task of negotiating with them. How can I negotiate, Comrade Major, if I don’t even know who I’m negotiating with?’ Without waiting for a reply, he went on. ‘As you just heard me explain, if all partisans do not come in willingly and begin the process of demilitarising, they will find themselves at war with the same people who are currently trying to save them from extinction. The men you see before you are those I was able to track down, but I can’t get that message to the others, can I, if I don’t know where they are? So you see my predicament, Major.’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’

‘And yet, Moscow would now like me to assist you in locating a single man who might be living with the partisans, even though neither you, nor I, nor God himself, knows where to find him?’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’

Andrich sighed angrily. ‘I suppose you had better start by telling me his name.’

‘Pekkala.’

The wounded officer turned to stare at Kirov. ‘Pekkala, the Inspector? The one they call the Emerald Eye?’

‘That’s him,’ answered Kirov.

‘I heard he was dead,’ said Lipko, scratching at the collar of his coat as if the fur was his and not stripped from the back of a goat.

‘So did I,’ added Fedorchak. ‘A long time back.’

‘I have reason to believe that he may still be alive,’ Kirov assured them. ‘Have either of you heard any mention of his name out there in the forest?’

‘No,’ replied Fedorchak, ‘but that doesn’t mean he isn’t there. When people join the partisans, their real names are often kept secret, so that their friends and families, or sometimes the whole village where they lived, would not be put to death if their real identities were discovered.’

‘So now,’ said Colonel Andrich, ‘you can see what you are really up against. To find a man who may or may not be dead, without a name, living among partisans no one can find, sounds to me like an exercise in futility.’

‘He was a Finn, wasn’t he?’ asked Lipko.

‘That’s right. Why?’

‘I heard a Finn was living with the Barabanschikovs.’

At the mention of that name, it grew suddenly quiet in the room.

‘Who are these Barabanschikovs?’ asked Kirov.

The partisans kept quiet, shifting uneasily in their corpse-robbed boots.

It was Andrich who replied. ‘Let’s just say, that if he’s with the Barabanschikovs, then your task may be even more difficult.’

‘But if you know who they are, then surely someone must know where they are.’

Fedorchak laughed. ‘Oh, we know where they are, more or less. They’re in the Red Forest.’

‘I don’t recall seeing that name on the map,’ said Kirov.

‘That’s because it isn’t there,’ Fedorchak told him. ‘The Red Forest is a name the locals gave to a wilderness south of here, where hundreds of maple trees grow. In the autumn, when the leaves turn red, the forest looks as if it has been painted with blood.’

Kirov looked anxiously from one man to the other. ‘Will you take me there? It’s still light. We could set off now.’

The partisans both shook their heads. ‘That land belongs to Barabanschikov.’

‘Then just point me in the right direction,’ shouted Kirov, ‘and I’ll go myself!’

‘You don’t understand,’ Lipko told him. ‘No one in their right mind goes into the Red Forest.’

At that moment, the phone rang. Colonel Andrich picked up the receiver, pressing it against his fleshy ear. ‘Damn!’ he shouted and hung up.

‘What is it?’ asked Kirov,

‘Another air raid.’ The words were not even out of his mouth before they heard the rumble of multi-engine planes. The droning of the unsynchronised motors rose and fell. Kirov could tell they were German. Soviet bombers had synchronised engines, so that the noise they made was a steady, constant thrum, instead of this.

Soon after came the first deep shudder of explosions in the distance. The bombs were falling in clusters. Kirov flinched at each detonation. The floor trembled under his feet.

‘This is the third time in two days,’ muttered Colonel Andrich, staring grimly into space.

The next volley of explosions seemed to happen all at once. The building shook. A crack, like the path of a tiny lightning bolt, appeared in the ceiling above Kirov’s head.